And so we sat in our little circle on our metal folding chairs on the grass, me and my aunt and the salt-and-pepper Brits, and the Chinese couple from Malaysia, and Michael in his wheelchair and Rasmus his helper, and the handsome and slightly uncomfortable European man, whose infrequent comments revealed a vague confusion or disconnect with the thoughts that came before. I found myself drawing from my experience in leading groups throughout the years, trying to discern when a particular path had grown cold, to recognize when two divergent opinions might create an opportunity for growth, to cover the material assigned so as not to miss a segment that might have been dear to one person, and most of all, to make sure all had a chance to speak. In my concern for communicating with Michael, I realized I hadn’t given enough attention to the Chinese couple. Picking up on the line that “Individualism as a road to happiness is an illusion,” I asked the man about his culture. How in the Chinese culture the emphasis is on the strength of the group, on the family unit as a whole, not on the individual, isn’t that right?
“That’s changing,” he said. “Now our young want more to have their individuality. Even in the church we see it, the music becomes more about the personal experience of faith. Much more I,I,I.”
His wife nodded and I sensed it was not so much deference as shyness and, perhaps, less confidence in her English. Everyone could relate to this issue of how music reflected this shift in culture from the collective to the individual. I knew that I had experienced it when I first started going to church: all the worship songs at our contemporary service had lines like “Breathe new life in me” or “I love you Lord” or “Make me a servant”— all first person language— whereas the old church hymns put the emphasis on God and the whole. “A Mighty Fortress is our God” or “Voices raised to you we offer” or “God of Grace and God of glory, on your people pour thy power.” In the beginning the old hymns felt dead to me but as I have aged, and perhaps matured, they have begun to feel richer. I only wish they didn’t have so many bloody verses— my voice is shot after two.
By the end of the hour and a half, our group had come to be all that one could hope for: connected, engaged, willing to share (I would work more on the European man later). “Well,” I said, “Shall we close in prayer.”
“Gracious and Heavenly father, we thank you for this time together, for the sunlight and the warmth of kindred spirits, for the chance to learn from each other, and to grow in our understanding of the gift of joy and the fruit of compassion in this holy place together…” I opened it up to the circle and those who felt so moved added their own expression of praise, with Michael wittily throwing in the AMEN at the end. We all laughed and rose up and I found myself eager to meet again with the group the following day. “So, shall we make this our spot for the week, meet here tomorrow at 3:30?”
The two Brits said they were very sorry, but that they had to leave the next day just after lunch. The couple from Malaysian echoed the sentiment. In a blink the group had been lopped in half. When even the European man said he wasn’t sure if he would make it, I felt a sudden, gaping sense of loss, not only of the individuals who were leaving, who I’d grown to like very much and was hoping to learn more from, but of the sense of the whole; our group, my group. The people to whom I’d been called to be as one with.
With all the enthusiasm I could muster, I turned to Michael and Rasmus and my aunt and smiled. “Well, I guess it’s just us, then,” and drifted off wondering what God had in mind this time.
Heather Choate Davis 